Eyes open to find a letter written in style like a roll in scroll
A waving artist sharing the gift of writing blended in hope
As faith lingers neither in stars or church walls only in future cast
Long before the word reached the page open for interpretation
Intelligence leads and the weeds have gained little more than share
Love is but a word for need to be a part of something living

A book it is. From black of night to pitch of day,
 Each cobbler had his way,
 The words form and crawl up the preverbal whine,
 Sleep like a wicked witch comes a take that what it will,
 Kill if you may,
 And stay until the deed is done,
A process yet to find,
As people stand,
Some come to death
 A truthful sight,
Needing a drink of the human kind.
Top down trying to out run my future

Saw wrinkle in possession left to be found
Reward a kiss in passing
None could hold her
She was too far
Gone to a place
Only true poets go

Land of sandy beaches
Letters left washed from view
Bottles floating with old grieving
Memories of lost at sea
Never a preview
Only a need to belong

Eyes open to find a letter written by life left alone
Yet the style is like a roll in scroll read center stage
A waving artist living the gift of writing ashes burnt in hope
As faith lingers in pictures neither in stars or church walls only in future gone
Long before the word in bleeding hearts reached the page opened for interpretation
Intelligence leads and the weeds have gained little more than share blamed
Love is but a word for need to be a part of something living beyond